Armageddon (29 page)

The sound of a C-17 rumbling nearby shook the small trailer.

“That’ll be more of our technical people,” said Alou. “I’m going to have to see them; we want one of the engineers to go over in the helicopters and inspect the landing area before they set down.”

“What’s he going to do, jump?” asked Starship.

“He may if he doesn’t know how to rappel,” said Alou.

THE HEAT AND HUMIDITY ALMOST KNOCKED JENNIFER Gleason down as she walked off the ramp of the big C-17, carrying a briefcase with two laptops and a backpack with extra clothes. The airplane had left from Dreamland several hours ahead of schedule, partly because the situation seemed more dire as news of the guerilla attacks came in, and partly because the Dreamland people couldn’t see the point in hanging around twiddling their thumbs once they were ready to go. Jennifer had spent the flight brushing up on the LADS technology, learning about the lighter-than-air vessels. While she knew a bit about the computer systems already, she wasn’t familiar with their operating procedures. The skins of the aircraft were made of a high-tech fabric containing LED matrices and what might be called a flexible plastic lens; the system made the airships almost invisible from a distance. The engines were also extremely efficient, thanks largely to recent inventions. But the rest of the airship design was hardly revolutionary, and materials aside, the small bag of air and its semirigid interior spine could have been designed fifty years before. Its simplicity was among its assets.

The blimps were controlled by a central ground station, which communicated with them via satellite. At present, the design allowed only one “live” receiver, which meant that the images from the system had to be uploaded back to Dreamland through a slightly kludgy arrangement that used Dreamland’s regular com channels. Turning over control of the blimps to another remote station, or to Dreamland for that matter, was a similarly laborious affair; the system had been designed with the idea that it would have its own dedicated command and control network for security purposes, and the present arrangement was actually a hack around those safeguards.

Jennifer spotted Major Alou near the C-17, talking with the loadmasters.

“Have we deployed LADS yet?” she asked after he said hello.

“Whiplash is in the process of launching two of the airships from the platform to cover the city. The helicopters will be bringing additional units with them as soon as they leave.” He glanced at his watch. “Which ought to be any second now”

“Great. Where are the helicopters?”

“Over beyond the second building on the right. Why?”

“Because I have to oversee the LADS technical operation.”

“You mean you want to go out to the platform?”

“How else would I do it?”

“And stay there?”

“How else would I do it?”

Alou gave the men a look and then motioned with his head toward the side. Jennifer followed him.

“You can’t stay out on the platform,” said Alou.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s dangerous. They’ve already been attacked.”

“Do we have other people there?”

“Well, the Whiplash team.”

“If they deployed LADS from there, that’s where I have to be.”

“No.”

Jennifer put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, Major. But I have a job to do. And you can’t tell me not to do it.”

“I’m in charge of the deployment.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. Jennifer felt her cheeks starting to burn.

“I mean—listen.”

“I’ve been on deployments before,” she said, turning and heading for the helicopters.

Washington, D.C.
12 October 1997, (local) 2100

Jed took the information Colonel Bastian had given him, double-checking what he could against the last CIA briefing and compiling it into a briefing paper and a PowerPoint slide presentation. His boss, Philip Freeman, had told him to bring it down to the White House situation room as soon as possible; Jed pulled the paper copies of the briefing page by page from the printer, barely making sure they were in order before starting for the secure area on a dead run. When he burst into the conference room a few minutes later, President Kevin Martindale was on the phone; Freeman motioned for Jed to come forward and give him the paper version of the briefing. Jed slid it over, and Freeman spun it around and separated the pages, showing one copy to the president and the other to the secretary of state, whose gray face turned even darker.

“Interesting,” the president told whomever he was speaking with. He leaned back in his chair and gave Jed a thumbs-up. He seemed somewhat tired, though as usual his voice was so calm he might have been chatting at a cocktail party.

“Well, perhaps you can explain then how one of your ships came to be firing upon an oil platform off the Brunei coast?” the president said finally to the person on the other end of the line. “Seems to have had some bad luck there.”

Jed started up the laptop presentation and then slid it over toward the president. A wry smile came over the president’s face; he looked a bit like a poker player about to reveal a hand filled with aces.

“I’m looking at an image of it in the water right now. Very interesting craft,” President Martindale said. He leaned forward to read the notes in the pop-up window on the screen. “What does this use? Surface effect technology? No—wing-in-ground effect? Wing-in-wave? Very impressive.”

The president looked at Jed. One of the CIA technology experts believed that the ship might have been built for Malaysia by China, but Jed had his own theory—the U.S. had experimented with some of the technology, and used parts built by a South Korean firm. He thought it possible that the plans were stolen somewhere along the way through industrial espionage; heads were going to roll if that was the case.

“Well, as prime minister, you’re in a position to do something about it, aren’t you?” said Martindale. He sat up straight, figuratively laying his cards on the table. “I expect to see concrete steps toward cooperation with Brunei forces within twelve hours. In the meantime, I’ve dispatched some of my own units to keep an eye on the situation. It would be very good if we could use one of your bases.”

The president listened, nodding as the Malaysian prime minister spoke. Jed slid out one of the sheets from his report, placing it so the president could see.

“Well that’s very good,” the president said finally. “I’m told you had some troubles at that secret base in the hills above Meruta where you were operating Su-27s until the other day. Rumor has it you bought those from the Ukraine—odd that the purchase wouldn’t have been announced, or shared with other members of ASEAN.”

The president smiled as he listened to the Malaysian leader’s continued excuses. After a minute or so, he interrupted.

“With all due respect, you have treaty obligations to honor. If you don’t honor them, I think you’ll find your position in the world community very, very tenuous.”

The president handed the phone to the secretary of state, who listened for a few more moments, said “Great,” and then hung up.

“They’ll cooperate,” the secretary announced. “We can use any of their facilities we want.”

“Dreamland preferred the, uh, hidden base,” said Jed. “Because it’s location is more isolated. Less chance for spies to see them coming and going. There are some security issues—we’re very short of personnel.”

“The Malaysians promised assistance,” said the secretary of state. “I think they’re sincere.”

“I doubt they’re sincere,” said President Martindale. “But I think they’ll go along with us for the time being. We’ve just given them carte blanche to attack the terrorists wherever they find them. I imagine they’ll use it to justify all manner of things. But for the moment, these terrorists are a bigger problem. Imagine what they’d do if they controlled a country like Brunei, with all its oil revenue. Jed, give Colonel Bastian the heads up. Get the Pentagon to send them more security personnel, Special Forces, whatever they need. Then you go get some sleep young man. You look as tired as I feel.”

VI
S
NAKES IN THE
J
UNGLE

Near Labi, southwestern Brunei
13 October 1997, 2300

DANNY FREAH TIGHTENED HIS HAND ON THE SIDE OF THE seat as the Quick Bird thundered over the Brunei Jungle, heading for the last launch point for the LADS system. He’d given up his usual spot in the front of the helo to Jennifer Gleason, who had hooked one of her laptops into the blimps’ command system. Jennifer had modified some of the programming en route, allowing them to activate the sensors on the fly as each blimp was launched. Though the system was scalable (meaning units could be added without major hassle), before her alterations it had to be shut down and rebooted, a lengthy process, each time a new unit came on line.

Who said scientists weren’t useful? And this one, even in a carbon-boron vest, was damn easy on the eyes.

“Thirty seconds to touchdown, Captain,” announced the pilot. “Hawk Three says we’re clear.”

“Good:’ said Danny. He stamped his foot up and down, trying to knock away the pins and needles.

“Problem, Cap?” asked Boston, who was sitting next to him. “I’m all right.”

“Foot fell asleep, huh?” Boston laughed.

“My leg,” said Danny.

“My grandmamma had an of recipe to fix that.”

“Your grandmamma, huh?” said Sergeant Garcia. “Did it involve castor oil?”

“Mighta. She put castor oil into anything, including the stew”

Danny’s grandmother had actually done the same thing. But he wasn’t about to encourage Boston, who’d find some way to make another joke out of it.

“Here we go,” said the pilot, tipping the helicopter downward.

Danny and Garcia jumped from the helicopter just as it set down on the wide highway. They ran in opposite directions, scouting the dark terrain around them with their helmet sensors. Once they were sure the area was clear, Danny had Boston and Jennifer unstrap the small LADS vehicle kit from the side of the helicopter. The helicopter cleared out to scout the area as they began inflating the lighter-than-air vehicle.

“Cap, got something moving down off the road,” said Garcia.

Danny spun around and ran down the highway. The long day and steamy weather were starting to take their toll, and he was huffing before Garcia came into view, crouched at the side and looking down a long curve.

“Too far away to get a good view,” said Garcia, pointing along the ravine. “Two bodies, but I can’t tell if they’re people or what”

Even at maximum magnification, Danny couldn’t see anything.

“Whiplash team to Quick Bird, I want you to stay clear of the area south of us,” Danny told the helicopter pilot. “We have something moving. I’m going to get the Flighthawk to take a look.”

Aboard EB-52
Indianapolis (“Indy”),
over Brunei
2312

Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews acknowledged the request from Captain Freah for a close-up of the area to the southeast of the LADS deployment team and turned his Flighthawk back in that direction.

Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby sat next to him on the Flighthawk deck of the
Indy,
controlling Hawk Four. Kick had just taken his plane up for a refuel, leaving Starship to handle the reconnaissance request on his own.

Not that he didn’t prefer it that way.

The U/MF-3 slid through five thousand feet, descending toward a blur of vegetation. Starship rode the plane over the right shoulder of the road for about a mile and a half, then started his turn to bank in the direction of the area Whiplash had pointed out. The sensors in the belly of the Flighthawk scoured the ground as he flew; the computer gave him two frozen frames as he pulled up.

“Hawk Three to Whiplash ground team. Captain, we got some blurs on that pass. Computer ID’d two people, but there may be more. I’m taking another run. I’ll feed you the video from the sensors,” he added, reaching with his left hand to the one-switch toggle that allowed the data to flow through the Dreamland network. “Thick canopy,” he added, meaning that the trees and vegetation would limit the sensors’ ability to see.

“Whiplash leader,” acknowledged Danny.

Starship banked Hawk Three well south of the target area and lined up again, practically walking over the area. He came around and found himself barely fifty feet higher than the rock outcropping on the opposite end of the highway. He’d been so intent on flying the airplane that he was surprised when Danny asked if he could give him another view of the troops.

“Sorry Whiplash, I lost that:’ he told the captain on the ground.

“Take another run,” said Danny. “I couldn’t tell if they were rebels or regular troops.”

Starship banked around and began another pass. As he did, he got two warnings from the computer—one because he was drifting too far from the Megafortress to control the Flighthawk properly, and the other because he was into his fuel reserves.

“I can manage one more pass,” he told Danny, “but then I have to refuel. Hawk Four is en route to take over.”

“Give me a good one then.”

Near Labi, southern Brunei
2318

“I can’t tell who they are,” Danny told Garcia after the third pass failed to show anything definitive. “We’re just going to have to wait and see if they get close.”

“Yeah,” said Garcia.

Danny ran back to Jennifer and Boston. They had not yet begun to inflate the blimp.

“We have some people moving up about a mile and a half from here, in the jungle:’ he told them. “We can’t tell if they’re good guys or bad guys. How long is it going to take to get that bag up in the air?”

“Another five minutes before we can start the inflation,” said Jennifer. “Then about ten minutes on top of that.”

Once inflated and launched, it would take the blimp at least ten minutes to climb up and out of easy range. The engine was fairly quiet, but could be heard when the craft was at ground level.